


Death of the Hero

by FourteenMinutes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adamant Fortress, Dragon Age Quest: Here Lies the Abyss, I really like the Wardens okay?, in which Leliana contacts the Hero of Ferelden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 03:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8650471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourteenMinutes/pseuds/FourteenMinutes
Summary: Inquisitor Clarke Trevelyan recalls her childhood idolisation of the Grey Wardens at the Siege of Adamant - as this still clings slightly to canon, things end badly.
Major Character Death is canonical.





	

The cut was clean, precise, a single straight line that ran from left to right without faltering or failing as it carved its way across the Grey Warden's throat. Death and desert dust had distorted it, but there was no mistaking that the wound was still fresh, that the woman had offered her murderer no resistance.

Slowly and with trembling fingers, Clarke knelt down and closed the Warden's eyes, freeing herself from the ominous weight of the dead woman's gaze. Lips cracked and throat dry, her hoarse, reverent rendition of their Oath was soon lost beneath the screams of the siege.

She was no longer a child, the Breach had shown her death - half charred broken bodies who died reaching towards the sky. Before that, the Mage Rebellion had taken from her - her mentor, the First Enchanter of the Circle of Ostwick, had let the fires claim her rather than abandon her post. But somehow the body of the Dwarf at the gates of Adamant broke her nerve.

Once upon a time, when the world had been silk tapestries and practised platitudes, when magic had been nothing more than someone else's nightmare, she had dreamed of being a Warden. Once upon a time, she had dreamed of being the Warden.

Her stave felt a little heavier in her hands, her heartbeat a little wearier. Sparks were slow to come as the first of the Grey Wardens responded to the breach in their defences, superseded by pity.

Heroes weren't supposed to scream with demon possessed lungs like saints weren't supposed to bleed, their faces weren't designed to be contorted with blind rage fuelled by blood magic, their eyes weren't allowed to be flooded with hate. It was such a petty thing, a childish thing, but with every Warden that fell beneath her flurries of spells the resignation inside her grew.

A long time ago a little girl in Ostwick had dreamt of becoming a Grey Warden, drinking in her nursemaid's tales of the recent Fifth Blight with wide eyes and wild dreams; after she had been taken to the Circle, she'd wanted it even more, spent scattered hours dreaming of a recruiter riding up to the tower and conscripting her on the spot, enlisting her for a life of adventure and glory and honour.

They were supposed to be the heroes, and she was meant to have stood in their ranks as they bravely battled the darkspawn. Instead, the Maker had a cruel sense of irony.

Steadily more men entered the lower bailey, in between the bent, broken shells of her childhood dreams weaved the Venatori, Erimond's men, and at the sight of them she felt the stone in her veins melt into flames.

Raising Tyrdda's Staff, she brought her wrath down upon their heads with a clap of thunder. The Warden's did not scream, the demons were tied too tightly to their skin to permit such an expression of pain, but the Venatori did, and the harsh sound gave her some semblance of pleasure even as it rose bile to the back of her throat.

She swore then, that for every Grey Warden she was forced to kill she would make the Magister's men suffer tenfold. If they had expected the mild healer they had met in the Hissing Wastes, she would give them the hurricane.

Lightning danced across her fingertips, coiled around her stave like a serpent, caught fire as it hummed through the length of wood and ignited the battlefield. A flick of her wrist, a spellbinder collapsed to his knees, screeching as electricity bit into his skin. Another twist, and a chain of fire and purple light hissed between them, crackling with fury as it burned through their armour and tore into the flesh beneath.

She didn't care what they thought of her then, didn't even waste a moment's worth of introspection for the concerned looks on her companions faces. All she had left was her fury, nothing else mattered - not the sight of scorched bodies and the scent of burning flesh, not the lingering threads of mana drain beginning to tug at her consciousness and the trebuchets hammering through the Fortress' defences, and especially not the muffled shouts as the Venatori began to retreat.

Three of the men were trying to run, practically tripping over themselves as they retreated. For spellcasters, they seemed to have forgotten fairly quickly the likelihood of them outrunning a lightning bolt. Holding her stave firm, she dropped Heaven on their heads.

The force of the spell staggered her, and she stumbled unsteadily as mana rushed from her and into the storm which made short work of the fleeing mages. At the slight flush of energy that flooded her, she turned to Dorian with silent gratitude, and they moved together to regroup in the centre of the courtyard, soon joined by a group of the Inquisition's forces and Commander Cullen.

"Alright Inquisitor, you have your way in, make use of it. We'll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can."

Grimacing, she nodded at Cullen. She might have given up on glory, but this battle was not going to go the way she had hoped it would, right down to the Inquisition's forces dying slow, agonising deaths at the hands of demons to what? To buy her more time?

"I'll be fine. Just keep the men safe." Just keep yourself safe was something she didn't need to add.

"We'll do what we have to Inquisitor. Warden Alistair will guard your back, Hawke is with our soldiers on the battlements, he's assisting them until you arrive."

He went to say something else when a low scream punctuated the air far too close to where they were standing, followed by a heavy thud as a man was deposited over the ramparts and to his death in the courtyard below. The shade responsible snarled at them, and she responded by sending it to a fiery death.

"Damn it," Cullen growled, starting back towards the trebuchets."There's too much resistance on the walls, our men on the ladders can't get a foothold. If you can clear out the enemies on the battlements we'll cover your advance."

"Got it." Her resolve failed her then, with the world around her on fire. "Please don't get yourself killed."

He did not smile, his face set into a grim frown. "The same goes for you."

As they parted, she nodded to each of her companions in turn, the Warden Alistair, Dorian, Cassandra and Varric. Pulling herself into some semblance of composure, the kind her mother no doubt tried to teach her too long ago, she gave the only order she could bring herself to let past her lips as they made their way through the tall wooden doors and into the Fortress proper.

"Let's end this."

Adamant Fortress had held against nothing but desert and silence for over a hundred years, slowly being covered by sand, then disgrace for the five hundred years before that. She supposed it was a testament to Dwarven engineering then, that the jetstone and metal ramparts were still proving a problem, and then promptly remembered that it had been the Dwarves who built the Deep Roads, and a Dwarf that had ended the Fifth Blight.

Her first nurse had been a surly, uncompromising Orlesian who didn't happen to think too much of either her or her brother Lewis. In contrast, the woman who took up the position of nurse after she left cast soft shadows across her memories of a gentle Fereldan with stories so unbelievable they had to be true.

At night, she would take them to bed and offer them a tale - of kings and queens, men and women, people of every race and creed and religion. Clarke's answer had always been the same, she wanted the story of the Fifth Blight, she wanted to know about the Hero of Ferelden.

Even Theresa's laugh had been gentle, a contrast to the hard scars that mottled her shoulders with teeth and claw marks too savage for a human and too precise for a beast. Then she would rest one hand on the torn skin like a reminder, and sit down beside her bed and begin to talk.

The Hero of Ferelden had been a Dwarf, and she had also been a princess, before she was betrayed by her brother and cast out into the Deep Roads. There, she had fought for her nothing but her own honour, believing that her last days would be eked out surrounded by the cries of the darkspawn. She wasn't wrong, Theresa would chuckle, but she hadn't been entirely right.

Instead, she had been recruited by Duncan of the Grey Wardens, she fought at Ostagar when Cailan's army fell twice as hard as any Mabari. But when the battlefield cleared and Loghain's treachery had been known, she was rescued from death by a witch and set off to unite Ferelden against the threat of the Darkspawn.

By the time Clarke was thirteen, she could tell the rest of the story before Theresa even reached it, complete with pauses and sighs and sounds for dramatic effect, relaying the epic tale from the moment the Hero of Ferelden left Lothering up until the point she drove her sword through the Archdemon's head. Whenever she asked what came next though, her nurse would just shrug, and respond: 'she lived'.

There were always questions, so many questions. But where did she go? Did she stay with Zevran? Did they return to Antiva and free him from the Crows? What about the Calling?

The last one sent a shiver down her spine. Did the Hero of Ferelden hear the Calling and feel herself consumed with fear? Did she walk down into the Deep Roads she thought she had survived so long ago with her sword and shield and fight to the last with the darkspawn? Or did she give herself up to bind a demon to someone else's skin, like the dead dwarf at the gates of Adamant?

As they ran through the burning building and into the Main Bailey, she prayed to the Maker that it wasn't the latter. Until she heard something that set her mumbled hopes ablaze.

"Stop! We won't be sacrificed for some insane ritual! Can't you see this is madness?"

A Warden, his voice thick with desperation stood by one of the makeshift lookout points, sword pointed firmly at two Venatori converging on him. Behind him stood two other Wardens, weapons trembling in their hands as the spellcasters advanced through the slew of boxes with their staves poised.

Whatever they had planned to inflict before they slaughtered the Wardens Clarke didn't care to know, all she cared was that the torrent of electricity was strong enough to cripple them. She had slightly more difficulty with the Warden Mages flanking them.

They were too close to the others already to electrocute them without collateral, and the others still pleaded with them, not moving as the people who had once been their friends continued their unthinking assault, demons by their side.

"They're bound to demons!" Shouted Alistair above the hubbub.

The shades accompanying them did not think much of that. One lunged for the nearest Warden, and instinct propelled Clarke to set him on fire. The others soon made a beeline for their group, and the world once more became a whirl of spells and swords and steel.

Not as she'd imagined it, never as she'd thought it would be - but bloody and ugly and tainted with bitterness. Between her companions and the Wardens themselves, they made short work of the enthralled mages. But cooperation did not constitute trust, and the moment the last mage fell the man at the front of the group turned towards them with his sword raised.

"Keep your distance!"

Putting aside her stave, she raised her hands in a placating gesture. There was no need for more death, no reason for these men who had fought for their minds to be forced to fight the Inquisition. She still wanted her hope, after all, the dull, persistent belief that some good things survived in their world.

"The Inquisition is here to stop Clarel, not to kill Wardens! If you fall back, you won't be harmed."

She watched as the fight went out of his eyes, replaced with resignation, and she felt herself on the verge of telling him that she wanted the fight no more than he did, that she wanted to kill Wardens no more than he did. But the fortress was on fire, and all of her men were still burning while she waited for the Warden to sheath his sword and step back.

"Alright, my men will stay back. We want no part of this, deal with Clarel as you must."

Dipping her head in due acknowledgement, she turned back towards the stairs leading to the ramparts when she heard Alistair chime in behind her.

"Nicely done. I’m glad some of them could be reasoned with."

It would have been better if all of them had listened to reason, was the retort she bit back on her tongue. The reply that found its way out instead was far harsher than she had intended.

"Like you?"

"Well I understand that running from the order and living out of Caves in Crestwood isn't everyone's idea of a fun time but the company would have been nice. Though Naz did visit. Pretty sure that was just to remind me of what an idiot I was though."

Naz? Nazrindul Aeducan, yes, that was her name. The Warden Aeducan, ender of the Fifth Blight, and she'd been a single degree of separation away from meeting her. In spite of herself, and in spite of already knowing the answer, she asked.

"Naz?"

"Keep forgetting she goes by 'Hero of Ferelden' these days."

"You were in contact with the Hero of Ferelden?" Hissed Cassandra, eliciting a small chuckle from Varric. "You knew where she was and you didn't tell us?"

"Well, you didn't exactly ask... That and Naz doesn't exactly stay in one place for long, something to do with the adoring crowds," he intoned bitterly.

"I can't believe you -"

"While I hate to interrupt whatever it is you have going here," Dorian cut in, "we have company."

The Rage demon poured off of the nearest ledge in a single stream of lava, righting itself when it hit the ground and lunging towards them with a howl. Sprinting to the side, she quickly erected a shield around the group, watching anxiously as the creature's fiery nails bounced uselessly off it.

Back in Ostwick she had been trained to be a healer, a quiet, contemplative model student. For the most part she enjoyed it, an enjoyment that had been quickly soured when she found out her father had considered it unladylike for her to learn any other form of magic. But before the First Enchanter had suggested it, she had only ever wanted to be a warrior. Even before she had discovered her magic she wanted to be a warrior.

She had used to run through the halls of Ostwick Manor, chasing after her brother with sticks or fire pokers or any other long implements that came to hand that they could pretend were swords. In theory, they were supposed to take it in turns being darkspawn and wardens, in practice, they both enjoyed their own roles far too much to change them.

So he'd been a hurlock, an ogre, sometimes even the Archdemon, and she'd been the Hero of Ferelden, stick raised high like a mighty sword, symbol of the Paragon Aeducan torn out of a Dwarven history book and stuck onto something resembling a shield.

Those fights were all about honour, all about glory, and they were pale, terrible imitations of her raising her staff and watching the demon convulse beneath the lightning strike.

Her brother had died at the Conclave before she ever got a chance to tell him how sorry she was for accusing him of betraying her, stretching right back to when he put down his sticks and pokers in favour of letters and diplomacy. Lewis Trevelyan had grown up before her, learnt before her the terrible truth about glory - there was none - and he had died ingloriously, just one more charred corpse in the ruins of Haven's Chantry.

As the demon slumped and dissolved beneath the blow of Cassandra's sword, she realised that she had yet to give up. Some part of her, hardened by the isolation of the Circle and preserved through Conclave and the events of Haven, was still a child fighting her battles with a stick instead of a staff.

The immediate danger disposed with, they made their way up onto the ramparts.

Above them, the night sky was flocked with stars visible in patches between the thick, acrid smoke of the flames. Around them, the battlements were flooded with men and demons alike, lashing out at one another between the rubble. Intermittently, one of her men would attempt to scale a nearby ladder, only to be greeted by the grinning face of a Venatori and his pet enslaved Warden.

Without their demon, however, the fight was mercifully quick, human flesh soon yielding beneath a barrage of steel and spells. They could bind the Wardens, but they could not make them invulnerable, and both Venatori and Mage fell as surely as their counterparts.

With muttered appreciation from the incoming soldiers, they headed back across the myriad of walls, scattering Erimond's men as they went.

They had never seen the inside of a Circle, the mages who came at her not with demons in their souls but fury in their hearts, they had been born somewhere where to have magic did not constitute some crime against the Creator. Perhaps some part of her resented them for it, deep down, but she could not deny that the Circle had made her who she was.

And she had wasted too many hours in the Tower at Ostwick staring at the walls and wishing for some sort of freedom to take them all back. She did have one regret, however.

At the next ladder, Hawke was entangled with a Pride demon and a group of Venatori, his daggers glinting as he darted about them. The Champion of Kirkwall moved like a whirlwind around them, slicing and dicing, cutting and carving his opponents before they even knew he was close.

It also made it considerably harder to fire a spell without setting him on fire, and she threw Dorian an exasperated look over her shoulders. There was one way they could do this - one of them maintain the shield on whoever was getting up close and personal, the other one throw everything they had.

Steadying her breath, she gave him the signal and raised a barrier on Hawke. One which quickly took a pounding from both Dorian's barrage of flames and the energy that crackled from the Pride demon's fingertips.

Roaring as the Champion gouged into the back of its leg, it lashed out with a loop of electricity, sending Hawke flying. For someone thrown a good twenty feet, even with a barrier, Hawke was quickly back on his feet and back in the fray, burying his dagger in the back of the Pride Demon's head.

Springing back as the creature snarled, she was almost certain that she could hear the man _laughing_ \- or was it whooping? - as he shot out of its reach before darting back in to drive his other blade into its back, leaving the beast distracted for Cassandra to strike it squarely in the chest with her shield, then a second time with her sword.

Pulling the knife upwards, Clarke watched as the Hawke carved through the creature before yanking out the serrated weapon and pulling a face at the black blood staining it. With a small shrug, he leapt back up and buried it once more into the demon's head, twisting it until its roars were silenced and it began to vanish beneath him.

Sliding off and back to the ground, he greeted her with the same smile he had used when Varric first introduced them back at Skyhold - the roguish, devil-may-care grin of a man who had brought a city and an institution to its knees before vanishing into the night with his apostate boyfriend.

"I thought your men could use some help up here," he said, wiping the length of his dagger clean on his armour.

"Thanks, and good work. Stay with my forces and see that they survive this."

"I'll keep the demons off them the best I can," he shrugged, "got to be better than Kirkwall any day."

It wasn't so much that she begrudged him for bringing the only home she knew for years to its knees, that his actions led to the schism that saw her friends divided against one another and her own mentor murdered, so much as her actions that had followed.

For all its infighting, the Circle of Ostwick, compared to the rest of Thedas, truly did collapse with nothing more than a whimper. The death of the First Enchanter was nothing more than a lurid footnote to what was for the most part a fairly peaceful disbandment. But while her friends on both sides had left to fight whatever they considered the good fight, she had gone home.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, to reconcile with her parents as equals rather than the child they had left - right up until the point she was placed under house arrest.

Her appearance at the Conclave was more a result of her brother's intervention really, his insistence that as a mage she be present at the events that could determine her future. She never played the hopeful hero, the bright eyed, optimistic mage who went to fight the good fight and ended up dead in some Hinterland's ditch of nothing more than starvation. War was not glorious, but she had never known war.

Not of the kind that smelt like sulphur and sounded like screams, a hell orchestrated by the distant twang of the ballistae firing and the shouts as demons were pulled forth from the Fade and thrown at the invaders. It was not really chaos, she thought, as they killed the final demon terrorising the battlements, but life as categorised by reasons why it was not worth living.

She did not notice nor care for the cheers of her men below her as the Pride demon dissipated, not when there was much more lurid work to be done. Killing demons was one thing, being forced to kill the Warden-Commander of Orlais would be another.

At the bottom, her forces had fallen silent, and she prayed to the Maker that nothing had crawled out of the chasm below to disrupt what she was tentatively going to term their good fortune.

Then she continued to run.

The air had started to hum, to thrum as they'd silenced the Pride demon, and she'd felt a swelling in her chest she could no longer ignore as trepidation or resignation or condemnation. Something terrible was happening, something that caused her hand to whisper and murmur with pain as she hurtled through the Fortress and towards the central courtyard.

If there was ever a time that Clarel needed to be stopped, it was then, and as she passed the bloodied corpses of her soldiers and the Wardens alike, she felt her resolve harden. They had passed the time for heroes back at the gates - if Clarel gave her no other choice, she would see the woman dead, Warden Commander or not.

Throwing the iron door to the last untouched area of the building off of its hinges confirmed the bitter taste in her mouth.

A group of Grey Wardens at least twenty strong stood about a party of five mages, their eyes rolled back and their hands raised towards the flickering attempt of a rift in front of them. Their skin was pale, turgid, their expressions taut with pain and exhaustion as they poured their energy into opening a way into the Fade.

But they were such physical things, and she knew from the demons at their heels that the mages truly felt no pain at all. They were nothing but husks - their bodies could collapse, but their minds were already empty.

In front of them all, Clarel stood with Erimond and another Warden, her expression terse. Clarel's eyes met hers, and she felt a flicker of doubt behind the Warden Commander's steel gaze. But doubt was not enough to stop her, and Erimond was not so forgiving, stepping forward from beside her.

"Wardens! We are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect."

"The Inquisition are inside Clarel, we have no time to stand on ceremony."

"These men and women are giving their lives Magister," she responded, thinly veiled disgust in her words."That might mean little in Tevinter but for the Wardens it is a sacred duty."

The Warden beside her dropped into a bow, and calmly allowed himself to have a knife pressed to his throat as she spoke.

"It has been many long years, my friend. "

"Too many Clarel. If my sword arm can no longer serve the Wardens, then my blood will have to do."

The sight made Clarke sick, physically, violently sick. All their honour, all their sense of duty that had made them the Wardens in the first place had been turned against them. Their swords had been broken and bent inwards, and they were one heartbeat away from driving it into their own chest.

"It will."

She wanted to scream, to ask the woman what she thought she was doing, who she thought she was helping, but she already knew the answers, had already picked over them and scrutinised them so many times she knew she'd do the same thing if she was in Clarel's position, Calling in her head, Archdemons still sleeping soundly in the stone.

Maybe that was the worst part, that if she didn't know that the bonded Wardens were little more than slaves to Corypheus she would've been helping Clarel. If she'd been a Warden, she didn't doubt that she'd have been one of the first to offer herself up for the ritual.

But she wasn't a Warden, she reminded herself sharply, any kind of her that served with the taint in her blood and some notion of a valiant death in her head had died at the Conclave. Instead, she was the Inquisitor, and as the Inquisitor it was up to her to stop them.

Her staff was half-raised when the Warden Commander closed her eyes and drew the knife quickly across the man's throat, dropping his body and sending blood spilling freely across the stone tiles.

"Stop them! We must complete the ritual!"

Erimond's order had a handful of Wardens starting in her direction, but at the sight of the dead man bleeding out, Clarke lost her will to fight. Maybe they weren't the glorious, shining heroes she had imagined as a child, but they were still people, and as the Inquisitor she had a duty to them to at least try and reason. She had failed the Templars already, allowed them to be corrupted beyond salvation by their purpose and red lyrium– she would not allow the same to happen to the Wardens.

Keeping her staff drawn, she raised her hand in a gesture of peace, glancing back at her companions to reassure them before stepping forward.

"Clarel! If you complete that ritual you're doing exactly what Erimond wants!"

"What?" Erimond sneered." Fighting the Blight, keeping the world safe from darkspawn? Who wouldn't want that? And yes, the ritual requires blood sacrifice - hate me for that if you must, but not hate the Wardens for doing their duty."

"We make the sacrifices no one else will. Our warriors die proudly for a world that will never thank them," echoed Clarel, but her words lacked their earlier conviction.

"And then your Tevinter ally binds the mages to Corypheus! I helped fight the Archdemon in Ferelden, could you consider listening to me?" Alistair shouted, causing a buzz of consternation to pass through the assembled Wardens as they turned to one another with alarmed stares and the same name on their lips.

"Corypheus?" The Warden Commander's voice faltered slightly. "But he's dead."

"These people will say anything to shake your confidence Clarel," hissed Erimond, "now finish the ritual."

Slowly, almost in resignation, the old Warden gave a deep sigh and the order. "Bring it through."

Around the circle of mages, glyphs flared, power crackling tentatively between them and screaming with the weight upon them. Like they were being squeezed, it was like something very big was trying to get through, something far too large for the power of seven measly sigils.

The Fade tore itself open like an old wound, and in the abyss she glimpsed hungry eyes, too many eyes, black and luminous and glistening in the semi-darkness. Her heart threatened to stop itself in her chest at the sudden, awful familiarity of it all. Why did it feel like she knew it, like she'd seen it before, with fire in her lungs and pressure on her chest and -

"Clarel, what did I tell you about pulling these 'end of the world' style stunts without me? It really hurts my feelings you know."

A dwarf no more than five-foot-tall, clad from head to toe in the uniform of a Warden Commander walked into the courtyard as if she were strolling through a park. A dwarf no more than five-foot-tall, with pale skin reddened by the sun, brown hair braided, wielding a sword and shield walked into the Fortress and into Clarke's life as if she had been waiting for that moment.

She almost kicked herself for her fluttering heartbeat, for leaning forward to check the symbol coloured with gold filigree etched onto the front of the shield - the battered but legible symbol of the Paragon Aeducan. At her side was an impossibly gorgeous elf who she guessed could only be Zevran Arainai and who seemed, like Nazrindul, completely unflustered by everything going on.

As she passed, the Hero of Ferelden winked at Alistair.

"Found something better to do Ali?"

The stunned silence that had announced her entrance was shattered by Clarel as the dwarf approached the Fade rift.

"Warden Commander Aeducan. I wasn't expecting you, not after you declined to help."

"Well, you know what I said: 'dwarves and the Fade don't mix'. That and I didn't feel like having my throat cut open for a Tevinter Magister, especially one that deals in blood magic."

"I understand that you did not join our order at an opportune time, Aeducan, that you were never a member of the old Grey Wardens of Ferelden, but I at least expected you to show some respect for the Oath you took under Duncan."

Nazrindul's eyes narrowed. "You're right. I didn't get the standard treatment, but here's what I did do: I ended the Fifth Blight. And I believe in every word of that damned Oath that I took, I don't just quote it to suit purposes.  But we've already had this argument, and I'm not going to embarrass myself by appealing to you again."

"You swore to defeat the Darkspawn no matter the cost, you betrayed this Order!"

"I may not have served as many years as you Clarel, and for that I respect your judgement. But by the Stone you're being like Trian right now, and so I'm going to imagine you as my bearded big brother as I tell you this. I have spent more time in the Deep Roads than you ever will, I have killed more darkspawn than you will ever see, I plunged my sword into the Archdemon's skull with the expectation that I would not survive. I may not have served as many years as you, but I have served every bit as faithfully and devotedly as you - I can hear the Calling in my own damned head. I'm just not giving it the satisfaction of my time of day, and neither should you."

Her words seemed to resonate amongst the Wardens, who shifted uncomfortably, their weapons going limp in their hands as they turned towards their own Commander for a response. The Orlesian and the dwarf stared each other down in silence, grey eyes on brown, old tensions simmering beneath the weight of their gazes.

Sensing doubt, Erimond reached forward and rested his hand on Clarel's shoulder, quick to try and reassert his authority. "Clarel, this demon is truly worthy of your strength. With it, there need be no more Blights, no more living in fear. Your men have made the sacrifice, and now you can join them in fulfilling your Oath. We have come so far, you're the only one who can do this."

Each pause grew more pronounced, more painful, laden with a thousand unspoken implications of what was to come. Bolstered by the sight of her childhood hero less than a few feet away, Clarke pleaded with every hope she still had left.

"Please Clarel. The Grey Wardens have a proud history, you stopped the Blight at the Silent Plains, at Starkhaven and Hunterfell, at Ayersley and Denerim - this world owes you a debt it can never repay. I would not stand against you, I would never stand against you, if I was not certain that you were being misused."

"Laying it a little thick there, but she's got a point," said Nazrindul, shrugging. "You owe it at least to our Order to make sure you're doing the right thing."

Finally, with one last push, the Orlesian Warden Commander's resolve weakened, and she turned to Erimond. "Perhaps we could test the truth of these charges, to avoid more bloodshed."

"Or perhaps I shall bring in a more reliable ally," he snarled, slamming the butt of his staff on the ground and sending red sparks flying. "He wasn't expecting the Hero of Ferelden, but my Master thought you might come here Inquisitor, so he sent me this to welcome you!"

The Red Lyrium Dragon she had faced at Haven tore out of the sky like a comet, smashing parts of the Fortress as it swung in over the courtyard and landed on a nearby tower. It screamed, and the world shook beneath it.

"Huh. That's a little small for an Archdemon..."

Nazrindul's quip was broken by a cry of pain as Clarel turned on Erimond, knocking him flat to the floor in a barrage of sparks.

"Clarel," he choked nervously, clutching at his side, "wait."

Whatever sympathies she might have held with the Magister were gone, however, and she launched a ball of lightning at the Dragon, startling it into leaping from its perch and casting ruby sparks across the battlefield. Seizing his chance, Erimond started to run, and the courtyard descended into chaos.

"Help the Inquisitor!" Clarel ordered, dodging as the creature swung overhead with an exaggerated screech before starting off after the Magister.

Out of the Rift poured demons, spurred on by the dragon's attack. Pride demons, despair demons, sending the battlefield into a deluge of spells and sparks. She could scarcely pick out the figures of Hawke and the Hero of Ferelden, let alone those of her companions or the Wardens, as the air was flooded with a haze of red.

Raising her hand, she let the spell pass through her skin, summoning the largest shielding sigil she could bear and illuminating her allies in a pale white sheen.

There, at the foot of the Pride Demon, Nazrindul slashed into the beast with her sword. At her back was Zevran, springing out of the way of the Despair Demon's gust of ice with ease and directing it away from her. Hawke quickly took advantage of the distraction, and tore into it from behind.

Cassandra had the Pride Demon's other leg, supported by a volley of arrows from Varric a few feet behind her and a flurry of fireballs from Dorian a few feet further away. Three Grey Wardens supported her, their armour reflecting the shield which did not quite encompass them.

Grunting at the effort, Clarke pushed. She pushed against the limit of all that was sensible to try and cover them beneath the broad banner of the shield as the Demon rained down blows. She watched them, one by one as they fell, her barrier not quite able to extend to encompass them. It drained her emotionally where the shield drained her physically, and she found the light faltering at her fingertips as her friends continued to fight.

"Clarke!" Dorian's voice cut through the sleepy miasma fast claiming her head, and she felt another rush of energy.

She wasted no time in restoring their shields, cussing quietly under her breath as the Pride Demon unleashed gust of lightning from its claws that assaulted her barriers. With a grin as the sparks scarcely skimmed her, Nazrindul sprung off of Zevran and swung her sword, depriving the beast of its head.

Hawke soon relieved Cassandra of the Despair Demon harassing her back, returning the creature back to the Fade where it belonged. The scene still resembled a massacre though, and the siege still burned bright in the night behind them.

Turning to them, the Hero of Ferelden laughed and shook her head.

"Why do the unnatural always smell awful? Wait, don't answer that. What I want to know is why Leliana thought she was sending me after an Archdemon when that thing isn't even big enough to be a High Dragon."

"Looking for glory?" Taunted Alistair.

"Nope," she remarked, flashing him a wicked, unapologetic grin, "just disappointed. Can't get the monsters these days. But Clarel... Clarel is a different problem. She may not be my favourite fellow Warden Commander, but we have to help her - let's get moving."

The Dragon continued to harass them as they moved up the ramparts in pursuit of Clarel, dogging their steps as they struggled past the stone debris and burning hay that littered the floor. It screeched, swinging over head, tearing at the building to get to them before soaring off at the slightest provocation. A few minutes later, it would return, and the cycle would continue.

In contrast, the demons that blocked their path were already engaged, the Grey Wardens holding them back as they passed. A few fireballs and a shower of lightning soon dispersed most of the lingering shades, leaving the Wardens bowing their heads in gratitude.

They fought higher, and higher, until they rounded the corner to a small courtyard. From the slight scratches that still survived to scar the floor, Clarke guessed that had been where they kept the griffons back before they abandoned the keep.

Clarel was advancing on Erimond, her shield deflecting the pathetic tongues of flame he sent flying in her direction.

"You," she snarled, "you've destroyed the Grey Wardens."

With a flick of her wrist, the spell spent the Magister flying backwards next to the abyss. But he did not plead or so much as cry out in pain. Instead, he laughed.

"You did that to yourself, you stupid bitch. All I did was dangle a little power before your eyes and you couldn't wait to get your hands bloody."

The first bolt of lightning sent the man flying backwards like a ragdoll, groaning in agony and rocking to try and relieve the electricity clawing through his blood. But still he spat, every word as venomous as the last.

"You could have served a new God."

"I will never serve the Blight."

The second bolt of lightning never came. Crashing down behind her, the Dragon seized Clarel in its jaws like a toy, teeth burying through armour and into flesh with a sickening crunch. Holding its prize, the dragon sprung out of reach to the walls, where it shook the Warden Commander her before dropping her in disdain.

Then slowly, purposefully, it advanced on them.

It became clear to Clarke then, acutely and painfully, that Clarel had never been anything more than a side show to the Dragon. The creature wanted to kill _her_ , it had been sent to kill her, and as it stepped forwards and drove their group closer to the abyss its pitch eyes glinted not with malice but apathy. Corypheus was its master - the beast no longer saw nor felt anything beyond the cold, professional command to kill.

Beside her, she saw Nazrindul raise her sword and shield.

"Zev, get Alistair out of here."

"You certain about this, my love?"

"I've survived worse. Besides, someone's got to carry Alistair."

With a last, heavy nod, the Antivan grabbed Alistair and ran. Just as Clarke suspected, the creature only levied the slightest swing in their direction, not taking its eyes off of her. Her heart felt as though it might burst out of her chest as its claws continued to click on the stone tiles.

She only heard the last words out of Clarel's mouth before the dragon lunged, and her world fell apart.

"In death..."


End file.
